Rasputin's Shadow

  I just held up my phone, with a questioning look. Then I moved to dial the number. “Here we go.”

  She watched me for a second or two—then she lunged for my phone. “Don’t be stupid,” she snapped.

  I held the phone out innocently, like, “What?”

  “Hang up, dammit,” she insisted. “This isn’t a joke.”

  I put the phone down. “I never said it was. But you guys seem to love playing games.” I stuffed the phone back in my pocket. “What the hell’s going on?”

  She stared at me, her face flaring with annoyance. “What do you think? We’re trying to find Shislenko before he gets shipped back to Moscow.”

  Now we were getting somewhere. “Is that Sokolov’s real name?”

  “Yes.” She nodded grudgingly. “Kirill. Kirill Shislenko.”

  “And you’re one of ours?”

  She nodded again.

  “Code name?” I had to make sure. “Grim—”

  “Wood,” she completed it pointedly.

  She couldn’t have known that any other way. Which meant she was working for us. I wasn’t sure where her ultimate allegiance lay, of course—who really did, with double agents. But she was on the Agency’s payroll and she damn sure didn’t want her Russian bosses getting wind of it.

  “How’d you find out?” she asked. “How do you know about Jericho?”

  “Confidential sources,” I said tersely. “So why not let me in on it from day one?”

  “You need me to tell you what they’d do to me if the SVR ever found out?”

  I didn’t need to answer that.

  “I can’t risk anyone blowing my cover,” she continued. “It’s a very tightly held secret, even inside the Company.”

  I guess I could understand that. “So how’d that happen? What made you come to our side?”

  She shrugged. “It was my plan all along. I never bought into the big lie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her expression took on a distant, steely tinge. “My father was a diplomat. He was also KGB, and a brute. Both to me and to my mom. But we lived well. We had a privileged life, with nice houses and chauffeurs and all the food we wanted. His being a diplomat meant I got to see the outside world and live in all kinds of places. Beirut, Rome, London. So I also got to see the outside world for what it really was, which was nothing like the lies the Soviet propaganda machine was pumping out when I was a kid. I grew to hate everything my father and the rest of them stood for.”

  She paused, gauging my reaction, a little internal debate clearly going on about how much to tell me.

  “Then after the Wall came down,” she continued, “it became even worse. There’s this great myth here in the West that the fall of Communism was a people’s revolution. Nothing could be further from the truth. I mean, sure, it was a revolution—but the people doing the uprising had no idea who was really pulling the strings and making it all happen. The whole thing was prodded and nursed from within. It was all stage-managed by the KGB.”

  “You’re saying the KGB helped bring about the downfall of Communism?”

  “They didn’t just help bring it about. They orchestrated it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they didn’t have a choice. And because they wanted to get rich. Look, the last guy to rule the Soviet Union was KGB. Our current president-for-life? Also a KGB officer. What does that tell you? Who do you think are the richest people in Russia today? The ones who were running the show before the Wall came down. That’s why they were able to plunder the country’s natural resources and siphon off these colossal fortunes for themselves. Because, like my father, they were the only ones who were allowed to see what was going on outside our borders. They were the only ones who could travel and read foreign newspapers and see for themselves, and they weren’t stupid. They understood that the game was over. They knew Communism was dying. So they prepared for its imminent demise. They set up their own version of democracy, their own version of capitalism.

  “People like my father and his friends at the Kremlin partnered with the only people who were doing business under Communism: the black-market bosses, the only people who understood how to actually make money at a time when it was a crime to do so. They all positioned themselves to reap the rewards together when the system collapsed. And they got it right. You think these gangsters were happier before, when a life of privileged luxury meant some crappy Volga limo and a dacha in a remote forest by a frozen lake? Or now, with mansions in London and hundred-million-dollar yachts in Monaco? The collapse of the Soviet Union was the biggest robbery in history. These guys make Al Capone and Don Corleone look like pickpockets. You think you have a problem with your ‘one percent’? Come to Moscow. See how our ‘one percent’ live. And how they really make their money.”

  “And you want to bring them down?”

  She laughed. “I can’t bring them down. No one can. But if I can help turn the tide a little bit, if I can score a small victory here and there . . . at least I’ll have done something.”

  I nodded. I was starting to like her. “Tell me something. Your people and us, this constant struggle between us. Is it ever going to end?”

  “No.” No hesitation there.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “We will always be jealous of you. Jealous of your economic and industrial success, and frustrated by Russia’s lack of it. Look at everything around you. We don’t produce anything except for basic natural resources that any third-world country can produce. We don’t create anything world-class that we can take pride in. Cars, planes, computers, mobile phones, wine, watches, you name it—we don’t make any of those. The only thing we’re world leaders in is the creation of spam. Spam, theft, and fraud. That’s us.”

  “Sounds promising,” I said.

  “It’s not,” she grumbled. Then the edges of her eyes creased. “The massacre at Brighton Beach. That was Sokolov, wasn’t it?”

  “He wasn’t there. But it was his handiwork. His machine.”

  She asked, “What is it?”

  Which surprised me. “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Who does?”

  “I don’t know. Obviously, some people in Moscow must know. The ones who saw his work before he defected. But I don’t know if they’ve shared specifics about it with my boss.”

  “What about Langley?” I was dying to throw Frank Fullerton and Reed Corrigan’s names at her to see her reaction, but I held back. Referring to them by their code names—the only names I had for them—would be the wrong move at this point.

  “I’m sure some people know more than they’ve told me, but as far as I know, no one really knows what it is or how it works. We just know it’s bad.” She paused, then asked, “What do you think it is?”

  I hesitated, unsure about how much to share with her. How much to trust her. But I figured she’d already revealed herself enough to be able to go a bit further.

  “He’s built some kind of device in his van. I think it has something to do with manipulating the brain using microwaves. But that’s about all I’ve got.” It was time for me to park my Corrigan quest, as I needed her help on something that was far more important—and urgent. “Who is this ‘Koschey’ we’re dealing with? What can you tell me about him?”

  “Not much. He’s good.”

  “That, I know.”

  She frowned. “He’s a top FSB agent. A lieutenant colonel. He works alone. Takes his orders straight from the general in Moscow. We’re instructed to give him any support he needs if and when he calls.”

  “We need to find him if we’re going to get Sokolov and his van back. Who’s his contact at the consulate?”

  “Vrabinek. The consul. But right now, it’s a dead end. Koschey hasn’t been in touch with him since Wednesday.”

  I felt a jab of unease. “So not since he grabbed Sokolov?”

  “Exactly.”

  This didn’t sound good. “He could already be gone.”
>
  Her glum look mirrored my sinking feeling. “Maybe.”

  This felt like a total catastrophe. Like we’d only seen the tip of the iceberg with this thing.

  Then my phone rang.

  And everything changed.

  61

  I couldn’t believe it.

  An anonymous tip.

  A warehouse out in Jamaica.

  Larisa could see something major was going down.

  “What?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

  I told Aparo I’d meet him at his car and hung up. “I’ve got to go.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you.”

  She reached out and grabbed my arm. “Talk to me. Don’t cut me out. We’re on the same side.”

  “Oh, so now we’re on the same side?”

  “Come on,” she said, her eyes all fierce. “I couldn’t tell you. And I wouldn’t have told you if you hadn’t figured it out by yourself. But now that you know, you also know how useful I can be. Let’s help each other. Neither of us can afford to let this guy run off with Sokolov or the van.”

  I didn’t have time for this. Aparo was rushing down to meet me. A dozen SWAT guys were gearing up and getting into their vans. Every second counted.

  “Fine. Come with me.”

  “What’s happened?” she said as she sprinted across the street alongside me.

  ***

  THE WAREHOUSE WAS IN a run-down light-industrial zone close to the LIRR station, just south of Liberty Avenue. There wasn’t much around in terms of activity—a lot of the warehouses and commercial structures had “Available for Rent” signposts outside them. It was clearly bust time in the old cycle, and the loading zones around here looked like they’d been hit hard. Which made it a perfect place for someone like Koschey to find himself a quiet little corner from which to sow his mayhem.

  The caller’s information had been good enough to match up to a particular warehouse, the one we were currently staking out. Me, Aparo, Kanigher, Larisa, and twelve highly trained members of the Bureau’s SWAT team. The four of us were all suited up in Kevlar, windbreakers with big letters on the back, earpieces in and weapons out, poised to raid the place. The SWAT guys looked like they were ready to storm hell itself.

  A thermal-imaging scan showed only one person in there and no heat signature from a warm car engine. The lone figure was on the ground with his back against the wall and wasn’t moving, which meant he had either dozed off or he was tied in place. It didn’t guarantee he was alive. At this distance, the FLIR camera couldn’t tell us what his temperature was, and the human body didn’t cool down that fast.

  With nothing else moving in there, we decided to go in.

  The SWAT-team leader—Infantino again, from the shoot-out at the docks—led his team in. They battered the door down and streamed in with breathtaking precision and smoothness, like storming a place was an Olympian synchronized sport. We went in right behind them. I heard a lot of “Clear,” then someone’s voice burst through my eardrums and I followed the instructions and cut through the large space to a small office in the back corner and a face that I was very familiar with by then, even though I’d only seen it in photographs.

  It was Sokolov, on the floor, his hands tied to a radiator behind him.

  He was very much alive.

  We freed him and I had him whisked out of there by three of the SWAT guys while the rest of us checked the place out. The van was there, its back doors wide open, only it was empty. And that was it. There was nothing else there.

  “He’s got to be coming back,” I told the team. “No way he’d leave Sokolov like this. He’s coming back.”

  “Then we’d better get ready for him,” Infantino said.

  I left Kanigher with the SWAT guys to help set up a perimeter, and Aparo, Larisa, and I set off to talk to Sokolov.

  ***

  KOSCHEY SCOWLED AS HE eyed the two parked SWAT vans and the Bureau sedan from a discreet position behind the edge of a building a block away.

  So they had Sokolov. And they were lying in wait for his return.

  Chyort voz’mi, he cursed inwardly.

  He was angry at himself. Livid. He should have taken Sokolov with him on his test run. He’d considered it, but then he’d decided that Sokolov could be a liability out in the open. The schoolteacher knew Koschey planned to kill him. He knew he had nothing to lose. And people with nothing to lose could do reckless things.

  He hadn’t wanted to terminate Sokolov either. Certainly not before he was sure that the device still worked properly. He wasn’t sure when he’d pull that trigger, if at all. Sokolov could still be useful if he didn’t become too much of an encumbrance. But at the moment, that was academic. The scientist was in the hands of the Americans. And there were too many of them there for Koschey to wade in with his guns blazing—assuming Sokolov hadn’t already been spirited away to some secure location, which he probably had been.

  He watched some more, an unpleasant feeling tugging at his chest—then he thought of the laptop and an idea blew the feeling away. Not just any idea.

  A deliciously ironic one.

  ***

  WE FOUND SOKOLOV HUDDLED in a SWAT support van a block away from the warehouse. Four of Infantino’s guys were locked and loaded and watching over him.

  He stood up, all jittery and anxious. “Is Daphne okay? I keep asking and they won’t tell me she’s okay.”

  “She’s fine,” I assured him. “We have her in protective custody till this all blows over.”

  I watched as relief flooded his face. “Does she know you have me? Can I talk to her?”

  “Not just yet. But soon. Just as soon as we have everything well in hand. It’s as much about your safety as it is about hers.”

  He nodded, his eyes blinking nervously. “All right. Thank you.”

  He seemed shaken and looked weary and haggard, but at least he was unhurt and in reasonably good shape. We gave him a bottle of electrolyte-rich water, sat him down, and asked him if he needed any medical attention, food, or anything else. He said he was fine. We then quickly went through what he knew about Koschey’s current whereabouts. He told us they’d moved “it” out of the van and into another vehicle, a black SUV. A Chevy, he thought.

  I was about to pass that on to Infantino when an urgent sense of foreboding ripped through me. “Wait,” I asked Sokolov, “this ‘thing,’ your machine—it’s in another car and it’s operational?”

  “Yes . . .” He hesitated, unsure as to what I was getting at.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” I blurted. “We’ve got to get everyone out of here. He could use it on us.”

  62

  I hit my comms mike. “Alpha One, this is Reilly.”

  Infantino’s voice burst through my ear. “I’m here. No sign of him yet.”

  “We might have a problem. Get your men ready to pull out. Might have to do it real fast.”

  He clearly didn’t like this. “What’s going on?”

  “Just be ready to do it if I tell you to.” I turned back to Sokolov, thinking this could get really bad in a heartbeat. “Your machine. It takes over the brain, doesn’t it? It can make us turn on each other?”

  Confusion and utter horror flushed across his face. “How do you know? Have you—has someone used it?”

  “Yes. Look, I need to know, is there anything that can block it? Is there anything we can do to protect ourselves from it?”

  His eyes were darting left and right, his mouth was stammering as he tried to calm himself and focus on my question. “Yes, there’s—I had some ear protectors in the van, but he’s got them in his car.”

  “Ear protectors?”

  “Yes, like earphones. The kind they wear on construction sites. I’ve modified them, of course. With wire mesh and Kevlar plating.”

  My mind was racing. “So it comes through the ears? Is that how it works?”

  “Yes.” He nodded furtively. “It heats
up the inner”—he caught himself—“it goes through the ear canals,” he said, conscious of the urgency.

  “What about earplugs?” I pulled out my comms piece and showed it to him. “What about these?”

  He turned it over in his fingers and examined it, then shook his head. “No good. They’ll provide a bit of protection, but not much. And that’s only if you have them in both ears.”

  This wasn’t going to work. I couldn’t imagine the SWAT guys had enough comms sets for everyone to have two earbuds in anyway.

  I could feel the seconds sprinting away. It was maddeningly frustrating. We needed to stay put—this was our one chance to get the bastard—but at the same time, we were sitting ducks.

  “What about the helmets?” I asked him, pointing to the SWAT agents in the van with us. They were decked out in drab green fatigues, thick body armor that included a large crotch panel and an FBI patch across the chest, goggles and helmets. “They’re Kevlar,” I told him.

  “It’s not enough. You need the mesh to break up the microwaves. Think of it like a phone signal. It can get through.” He saw my frown, then added, “If they’re on tight around the ears, they’ll offer some protection,” he said. “But they won’t block everything out. I’m sorry.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was still better than nothing. I turned to the SWAT agent. “You got any extra helmets or comms units in the vans?”

  He shook his head. “No. We load up in full gear.”

  I looked at Aparo, then at Larisa. The three of us, plus Sokolov, were totally unprotected.

  The others weren’t much better off.

  ***

  KOSCHEY WAS BACK IN his SUV, with the open laptop on the seat next to him. He had the engine running, and his finger was hovering over the laptop’s keyboard.

  Maybe it was time to test Sokolov’s machine a second time.

  And this time, on a far more deserving audience.

  He stared ahead, deep in thought, debating using Sokolov’s invention to get the Americans to do his work for him.

  All it would take was one tap of his finger to switch it on and turn the whole warehouse area into a kill zone. They’d destroy one another. They’d also kill Sokolov. Which was better than letting them have him.